es. Our farthest advanced woman
worker had a hut all her own at Hablainville, a village where our
troops were billeted and where Fritzie kept everyone on the _qui vive_
by his intermittent gifts of high-explosive bombs and shells.

Miss O'Connor always inspired confidence. It mattered not whether she
was dealing with the hysterical French women when bombs exploded in
their gardens and fields, or whether she was counseling with the
Colonel, at whose table she was the invited guest. Her quiet
assurance, her cordial greeting, her intelligent understanding, and
her keen sally of wit made her always welcome. And the boys thronged
her hut. She did not try to "mother" them--the mistake some canteen
workers made. Nor did she try to "make an impression" upon them. She
quietly lived her life among them. No one could long be boisterous
where she was, and so I always found her hut a rendezvous where men
were glad to resort as they came from the battle or from camp.

Many were absorbed in their reading, of which there was a good
assortment--the daily papers, the magazines and a choice collection of
books furnished by the American Library Association. Other groups were
intent upon chess or checkers, while in the piano corner were the
musically inclined. Sometimes it was a piano or a baritone solo, but
most often the boys were singing "Keep the Home Fires Burning," "The
Long, Long Trail," or "Katy."

One day when delivering to the hut at Neufchateau, I was attracted by
the strains of music that came from the piano in the auditorium--the
"Y" there had a large double hut. I slipped into a back seat to
listen. A group of boys were around the piano while others were
scattered through the building attracted as I had been. At the old
French piano was a small khaki-clad figure, coaxing from its keys with
wizard fingers such strains as we had not dreamed were possible. We
were held spellbound until the musician, having finished, quietly
walked away, leaving his auditors suspended somewhere between earth
and heaven. One by one we walked silently out to our respective duties
of helping to make the world safe for such as he.

One Sunday evening just at dusk, I drove to our camp at Ker Avor. The
boys called this camp their summer home. It surely was an ideal spot
in the heart of a pine forest, high up in the Vosges Mountains. It was
also near enough to the enemy lines--about a mile distant--to make it
mighty interesting.

After delivering o